Fall colors are markedly more orange than green, Halloween is nearing and it is definitely pumpkin time! In keeping with one of our favorite activities—U-Pick (see Magical Moment Mondays: Pick-Your-Own)—we went to Fishkill Farms to roam the pumpkin patch and seek out the perfect pumpkin or two. The day was lovely and sunny with a little crispness in the air and the orange pumpkins gleamed in the fields. From tiny round balls to large lumpy orbs, the pumpkins hid in the brush waiting to be found. Children and adults wandered here and there looking for a pumpkin to call out to them, “Take me home!”
We took home two beauties of different shades of orange. One has little green spots that look like freckles—we will have fun carving a goofy face with that one. The other has a surface smooth as silk, ready for any design we choose. I love that pumpkins have many raison d’etre: they are lovely to look at, they provide the child-like activity of creating Jack O’Lanterns, their flesh makes yummy pies and perhaps my favorite—they deliver pumpkin seeds for roasting! Can’t get more magical than that!
When the Frost is on the Punkin
By James Whitcomb Riley
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! …
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
XOXO Rachel
Wondrance 